Skadi squared her shoulders as she entered the great hall. She felt Natthrafn’s loss keenly and was painfully aware of how her fate threads had dropped to three. But this was her uncle’s hall, she would be granted guest right, and she had nothing to fear.

Or so she told herself.

The hall was vaulted and massive, lit by the central fire pit that ran down the length of the room, trestle tables flanking it on either side. Shadows wreathed the walls, obscured the rafters overhead, and the air was thick with the smell of smoke, of cooked meat, and of unwashed bodies. Warriors sat at the tables, but not many; perhaps a dozen in all, here and there in knots of two or three, ale horns in hand, their eyes tracking Skadi as she walked toward the raised platform at the hall’s end.

A skald to one side played a melancholy song on his lyre, the rippling notes liquid and golden and seeming to dance with the torchlight. Hounds lay about the benches, great war beasts, their eyes ebon and gleaming, their heads raised as they watched her pass.

But her gaze was fixed on the hall’s end, on the dais, the high-backed chair, the bear and wolf pelts draped over its frame and the floor about it. Jarl Kvedulf’s throne, his seat of power, and upon it, the man itself, a stranger to her, met once when she was too little to remember, his gaze stern as he watched her approach.

He wasn’t a massive man like Marbjörn, but compact and powerful, a brown bearskin about his shoulders making him more imposing, a thick necklace of gold hanging from twin golden medallions pinned on either side of his chest. He had thick golden bracelets and armbands, and the hilt and pommel of his blade, leaning against his throne, were also of silver, as well as the chape of the scabbard.

His features were strong, striking, and she could see some semblance to her father in them, but not much; his hair was blond, twin braids hanging down from his temples, his beard thick but trimmed short. Beneath his lowered brow gleamed two piercing blue eyes, and his expression was harsh, just short of a glower.

Not a man prone to smiling or jests.

Marbjörn stopped before the throne. “Your niece, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, who claims Kalbaek was conquered two weeks ago by the Archeans. She docked a war ship crewed by old men and women, a half-troll and half-giant.”

And with that the housecarl stepped aside.

Kvedulf stared at her, and Skadi matched his gaze, eyes wide, her heart pounding, the skald gone quiet, the murmurs silenced. Somewhere a crow cawed, and in that moment Skadi sharpened her gaze and saw glory.

More threads of gold burst from Kvedulf’s chest than she could guess at. Scores of them, shifting and interweaving, nearly hiding the man himself, forty, maybe sixty, easily double what Patroclus had carried, a wyrd so powerful that her knees went weak and her mouth dry.

But his threads did not extend away in taut lines like every other she had seen; his bent in great arcs, spreading out all around him, to pierce wall and ceiling in such manner that they had to curve back down and encompass Kráka.

Not waiting, she stepped forward and proffered the torc. “I am relieved to be under your roof, Uncle. May I present this treasure as a gesture of my respect and love.”

Kvedulf took the torc, turned it about so that the gold gleamed, and then inclined his head. “My niece. Washed up on my shore with tidings of defeat. My brother?”

“Gone raiding. He knew of the Archeans’ intent, and set out early with all five ships and a hundred warriors. He was betrayed by a guest, Jarl Leifr, who warned the Archeans of his absence. They sailed in with five ships and took Kalbaek by fire.”

No emotion registered on the jarl’s hard face. “And you escaped how?”

“I didn’t. I killed six men before the leader of their war band overpowered me. I was bound and placed on a ship to be taken to Mávri Aktí as a pawn in the war to come.”

“You killed six men.” It was a statement of flat disbelief.

“With the blade I was forced to leave by the door.” How her heart was pounding. “Need I swear by the gods, or is my word as your blood sufficient?”

His eyebrow arched. “Continue your tale.”

“That first night a storm hit us, and I surprised the man charged with feeding us. Took his axe and began to kill them. At first the other sailors did nothing but hoot and howl, but the more blood I spilt the more joined the fray. Aurnir, the half-giant, roused himself and knocked many overboard. Glámr, a half-troll, joined in the fight with equal skill. Together we cleared the ship but for four men, and those forced to help row us here.”

Murmurs from the others about the hall. She could feel Kofri and Damian at her back, hoped that they’d be wise enough to stay silent.

“You took the ship by force.” Another statement of disbelief. “You were not bound.”

“I was.” She raised her chin. “It was not enough to stop me.”

At this Kvedulf’s lip rose in a sneer. “It seems my brother has raised a she-wolf. That, or a skald of impressive talent, for this tale beggars belief.”

“If you need proof, Uncle, furnish me with a foe and I shall give it.”

The jarl leaned back in his throne. “You would fight with one of my men?”

“If it means safeguarding my honor. I will not be called a liar by anybody, not even you.”

“There is no need for this.” He waved a hand, brushing away her protest. “You are welcome in my hall, daughter of my brother, and your crew, such as they are, may season here at Kráka until we learn more about Kalbaek’s fate. You may join my household, though it will not be an easy summer. There is much work to be done. I trust you learned how to weave in my brother’s hall?”

“I know how to weave,” she said. “But that is not my wyrd. If I need fight a man of yours, then I will do so if it earns me the respect I am due.”

More murmurs, a few laughs.

“How old are you, Skadi?”

“Eighteen summers.”

“You should be thinking on marriage and alliances, not blades and battle. Even I, here in the north, sitting in godforsaken Kráka know this. I’ll not have my brother learn that I let his sole daughter fight the moment you stepped in my hall.”

“You don’t take my words seriously. So I must insist. Unless your men are afraid to fight a warrior of Kalbaek?”

Stirrings and mutterings.

“Careful, Niece,” said Kvedulf. “You tread on thin ice.”

“I’ll stomp on it.” Skadi glared at her uncle. “Allow me to prove myself or accept my words. Honor allows for no other option.”

The moment dragged out. Kvedulf studied her, his brow lowering over his piercing eyes, the weight of his regard tremendous, but then he inclined his head. “If the girl wishes to fight, than fight she shall. This is the north, after all. Galarr. Rise.”

Skadi turned to watch a young man stand to jeers and catcalls. He had to be her age, his beard but barely grown in, his frame lanky, his face flushed.

“Here, now, we’ll settle the matter. Skadi claims to have slain six men during the fall of Kalbaek and slaughtered the crew of a longship. You will earn much glory for knocking her on her ass.”

Laughter, and Skadi felt her face flush. Galarr was equally displeased; he rounded the table and came to stand before her, his fair features pulled into a frown, his hands opening and closing.

But no threads of gold burned free of his heart.

Kvedulf ran a finger under the fringe of his golden mustache. “Fight.”

Galarr sneered in displeasure, shook his head, then raised his fists. His comrades laughed, called out suggestions, and one stood to make thrusting motions with his hips as he advised Galarr on how to go about the fight.

Kofri and Damian stepped back. Both were intent, but neither looked nervous.

They had already seen what she could do.

Skadi shook out her arms, bounced on the balls of her feet once or twice, and then raised her fists as well.

Galarr muttered in anger and approached. Feinted once or twice but refused to land a blow.

His mistake.

Skadi waited for an opening and took it. Threw a punch at the youth’s face and closed in fast to bury her fist in his stomach.

Or tried. He slapped her punch away, went to sidestep, but one of her three threads burned away, and he tripped. Staggered right into her blow, which sank deep in his stomach.

The breath burst out of his lips and he reeled back, eyes wide in shock.

Skadi pressed her advantage, feeling sorry for the youth, and punched him twice in the face before swaying away from a wild haymaker and kicking him square in the chest as if he were a jammed barn door she wanted to burst open.

Galarr fell to the ground with a grunt, then rolled onto his side to gasp for air.

Silence.

Skadi lowered her fists. “There.”

Kvedulf frowned. “The boy didn’t take the fight seriously. A milkmaid could have knocked him down. Fine. You’ve earned yourself a proper fight. Garmr.”

A heavyset man with a prodigious gut rose from his bench. A rancid sheep’s pelt was draped about his shoulders, and his bald pate gleamed in the firelight. His arms were thickly roped with muscles and scars, and his mouth was a slash, his nose flattened by fights, his eyes narrow and dark.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Skadi. One does not make idle boasts in the hall of a Draugr Coast jarl.”

Skadi sucked in a deep breath and resisted the urge to step back as Garmr rounded the table to stand before her. They were of a height, but he had to weight twice as much as she did.

“No hard feelings, girl,” said Garmr, his voice as flat as his gaze.

Skadi focused her gaze. Three threads of gold emerged from Garmr’s chest.

One more than her.

Her spirits began to sink, but she shook off the despair. This was winnable. Better yet, it would be a decisive victory. Knocking Garmr onto his back would earn her more respect than defeating a dozen Galarrs.

“Fight,” said Kvedulf.

Time to lean into her wyrd.

Skadi spread open her arms and strode directly at Garmr, whose frown deepened at her bold effrontery. He shrugged his shoulders then swung hard and fast at her face, his broad palm open in what would be a devastating slap.

A log set at the end of the firepit split open with a vivid crack. A fountain of sparks flew forth, bursting into the air and Garmr’s face.

He flinched, surprised, and lost his focus.

Skadi ducked under the faltering slap, bobbed back up, and quicker than a serpent’s strike slapped Garmr in turn, the smack loud but without much force behind it.

She lost a thread.

“Wake up, warrior,” she said, stepping back. “Let me know when you’re ready to begin.”

Garmr’s face flushed dark, and the other Northmen at the benches howled in derisive amusement.

This time Garmr shuffled forward, quick, neat steps, and again he lashed out at her, another great slap that would have boxed her ears and sent her falling to the ground.

Again Skadi made no move to defend herself.

A raven cawed raucously and dove down from the rafters, flying between them in a flurry of flapping wings. Garmr barked in alarm and fell back, arms rising to shield his face, but the bird flew on, down the length of the hall, and out the front door.

No laughter now. Garmr stared at her in wonder, his golden threads burning bright, her own all spent.

But she saw fear in his eyes, doubt.

He didn’t know he had the edge. That the fates favored him.

“You cannot win,” she said, voice firm. “You will fall before me, broken and bleeding. The gods will it.”

Nobody spoke.

Skadi slid her toe under a poker propped against the rim of the firepit, flicked it up, and snatched it out of the air. Held it like a spear and flung it at Garmr’s face.

It flew true. Should have hit him square between the eyes, but at the last moment her hand cramped and instead it flew just wide, disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Garmr’s first thread snapped.

Skadi roared at him, the cry of a savage animal, and leaped forth.

Garmr, eyes wide, backed away, then caught himself and swung, fists closed.

But his attack was slow, hesitating.

Skadi leaped and placed one foot on the table’s end, then pushed off it to fall upon Garmr, raining a fist down with all her weight across his jaw.

His head snapped sideways, and he staggered.

His second thread snapped, and the blow proved to be glancing.

But he was still disoriented, afraid. Before he could react she looped both hands around his neck and slammed her knee into his hard gut, once, twice, then bent him down to slam her knee into his face.

His nose crunched.

His third thread disappeared and he was saved, her knee having bounced off the corner of his skull instead.

Garmr reeled back, eyes wide.

Skadi came after him, screaming to keep him overwhelmed, and hammered at him with her elbow, again and again, as if her arm were a hammer and his face a peg. He staggered, blinded now by his own blood. With a final cry she leaped, wrapped her arm around the back of his head, and dropped, driving his brow down upon the edge of the table.

Everything upon it, dish, cup, and platter, rattled.

Garmr’s head bounced clear off the boards and with a groan, he collapsed to the ground to lie dazed, blinking, arms weaving uncertainly about him.

Skadi backed away, breathing hard, wanting to continue, to hammer her heel into the warrior’s face, but reined in the instinct and turned to glare at her uncle.

“Well, well, well,” said Kvedulf, eyes gleaming with interest. “It turns out my niece is a shield maiden after all. How interesting. Welcome to Kráka, Skadi. I think you’re going to fit right in.”